The Goldstones and the Way: The Stones of Veylindré, #1

By Sue Woolley

During a terrific storm, the pilgrims are translated to the Commonweal of Veylindré. When the rest are murdered by pirates, Abigail, a girl from 17th century England, vows to make a new life for herself in this strange world, with her boyfriend, Jacob. Some Dagâran people befriend them, and Abigail and Jacob soon realise that Veylindré is quite different to the England they left behind. All Veylindréans worship the Six, and are able to do magic by accessing the mysterious Way through their Goldstones. But they have an enemy, the Prophet of the One, who rules in Talamdor.

 

The quest begins... during their journey to Ranusheim, while Abigail is open to learning, and grows into her new role as an initiate of Ranu, Jacob struggles with accepting the Six. The choices they make in response to the changes they experience will have huge consequences for both their lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scimitar Edge
• Release date: Nov 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9781915692900

Book preview

The Stones of

Veylindré

Book 1:

The Goldstones

And the way

Sue woolley

Published by Scimitar Edge

An imprint of Purple Unicorn Media

Copyright © 2023 Sue Woolley

All rights are reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the publisher.

ISBN 978-1-915692-90-0

Cover design by Robin Stacey

www.scimitaredge.com

Dedication

For David – thank you for your inspiration,

support and insights.

End Contents

The Stones of Veylindré – Glossary

The Stones of Veylindré: Characters

The Stones of Veylindré – Places

Acknowledgements

Maps

Chapter 1

Abigail, her mother said, nudging her arm, This is no time for daydreaming. Your father says that Captain Wood wants to catch the morning tide.

Abigail jumped – she had been miles away. Sorry, Mother.

She had had no idea the ship would be so vast, at least to her eyes. Her heart began to beat faster as the raucous calls of the gulls wheeling overhead filled her ears, and the steep wooden sides of the Sweet Sarah loomed up in front of her, bobbing and tilting at the quayside. In spite of the resentment she still felt towards her father for uprooting all their lives, she could not help feeling excited now that their adventure was about to begin. It was the 6th of April in the year of Our Lord 1665, and their little band of pilgrims – twenty-eight men, women and children under the impassioned leadership of her father, Pastor Thomas Winters – were about to set sail from Southampton. Leaving England, leaving the security of the world they knew, because her staunchly Presbyterian father could not live under the tyranny of Charles the Second.

The Sweet Sarah was about seventy feet long from bow to stern and had three masts with square rigged sails. The crew, many of whom Abigail was secretly afraid, with their rough clothes and rougher ways, outnumbered the pilgrims by five to one. The greater part of the space below the deck was filled with a cargo of finished goods the New World settlers were crying out for. As she searched for the small cabin she would be sharing with three other women and her little sister, Faith, the thought crossed her mind that their inclusion on this voyage was very much an afterthought of Captain Wood’s, to maximise his profit.

Abigail was proud of her father’s status as one of the Ejected, the two thousand clergymen who had refused to conform to the tenets of The Book of Common Prayer in 1662.Even if it had led to this uprooting of their lives. Last year’s Conventicle Act had been the last straw for him. She remembered him ranting about it as they sat around the supper table, in the little house they had now left behind – forever, she supposed. She could hear him now…

That devil Clarendon means to make our lives and worship impossible, he had said, his face dark with anger. This Conventicle Act makes it impossible for us to worship according to our consciences.

What does it mean for us? her mother had asked, her voice calm and soothing, as always.

Yet even her mother had been unable to pacify him – not that time. Abigail suspected it was no easy task to be married to her fiery father, but her mother generally knew how to manage him, how to lull him into complacency. As her father was the head of the family, her mother was their gentle guardian, to whom they all, her turbulent father included, turned with their troubles. Abigail adored her.

What does it mean? her father had shouted, trembling with the force of his emotion.

Even now, months later, Abigail could feel her stomach clench as she remembered her father’s answer.

It means that we, the Dissenting ministers, are forbidden to hold religious assemblies of more than five people outside the auspices of the Church of England. This will be the ruin of us. We have to leave. Soon.

Leave? her mother had said, dismay in her voice. How can we leave everything and everyone we know?

Abigail had been with her mother. She had spent all of her seventeen years in that house. Tears stung her eyes as she remembered the little bedroom in the eaves, which she shared with her little sister, Faith, with its sloping walls, its two narrow beds, its built-in cupboards, the scent of honeysuckle coming in through the window on summer evenings. And he had forced them to leave it all behind. Resentment burned in her chest. Until now, she had rarely even left their little village, only visiting the nearest town, Andover, on special occasions.

The Pilgrim Fathers managed it, her father had snapped. I don’t see why we shouldn’t do the same.

As you say, my husband, her mother had said soothingly. But it will take a good deal of organising.

Her mother had been right. It had taken her father months to find a captain willing to take them to the New World. But now Abigail – in spite of missing home – was beginning to relish the experience. She soon became accustomed to the privations of life aboard ship, and was relaxing into the novelty of the voyage.

Once she had got her sea-legs, which had taken a couple of days, she was enjoying the thrill of being at sea, watching the endlessly changing formations of the clouds and the waves buffeting the sides of the ship, sending spray high into the air. The invigorating scent of the ocean was always in her nostrils, promising adventures to come. If only she could do something which would make a difference, when they reached the New World. She wanted more from her life than home and family.

How she wished she could take off her confining coif and let her hair blow free. But her father would have a fit. He was very strict about seemly appearance, especially for women. One of his favourite quotations from St Paul was from the eleventh chapter of the Epistle to the Corinthians, every woman that prayeth or prophesieth with her head uncovered dishonoureth her head. Abigail sighed – she knew that one off by heart. It was easier to fall in with her father’s strictures than to defy him. She hoped the New World would mellow him. What was she thinking? That would never happen.

There was only one other fly in the ointment. In the confined area of the ship, it was difficult to avoid the attentions of Matthew Sanderson. He was at least ten years older than her, a thick-set man with a brutal face. Abigail disliked and distrusted him but knew her father had plans to marry her off to him. Never, never. Even if she and Jacob had to run away together, she would not marry Matthew Sanderson. Would not.

Jacob, tall, weather-beaten, his strong hands gentle when they touched her. Jacob, with his deep brown eyes, his dark curly hair, which she loved to run her fingers through. They had been meeting in secret for nearly a year now. In spite of her father’s plans for her, she would not give Jacob up. Absolutely would not.

You could stay here with me, he had said, as they had walked in the wood near the village one evening the previous autumn, safe from prying eyes.

I can’t, Jacob, she had protested. My mother relies on me to look after the little ones.

In that case, I’ll have to come with you.

Would you really do that, for me?

Of course I would, my little love.

The following Sunday, he had turned up at their secret meeting place in a friendly farmer’s barn and, after attending a few meetings for worship, asked to join their band of pilgrims. Abigail had held her breath, afraid her father would reject him. And yes, Pastor Winters had been suspicious at first, but the addition to their party of a strong young man with a useful skill had been too tempting to let pass. And Jacob was clever enough to seem sincere in his protestations of faith. Her joy was complete. She could face any trial, any deprivation, as long as she had Jacob by her side.

One day, when there were no other pilgrims in sight, they leaned against the weathered rail of the ship, revelling in the uncomplicated pleasure of each other’s company. Jacob once more expressed the doubts she was beginning to share.

Your father seems to think we will simply turn up in the New World and be accepted with open arms, he said, his hand over hers, warm and reassuring, but I’m not convinced it’s going to be as straightforward as that. Why should the established communities welcome us?

The freshness of the air, together with the warmth of Jacob’s lean body next to hers, were intoxicating. Abigail didn’t want to think about future problems. Surely they will not turn us away?

No, I expect we’ll be allowed to stay, but I’m sure we will have to work for others, earn their trust, before we can set up our own place.

I suppose you’re right, she sighed. Oh, why couldn’t my father have been someone ordinary?

Cheer up, my dear. At least we are together.

She kissed his cheek. I do love you, Jacob. I’m so glad you are here with me.

One evening, when they had been at sea for seven weeks, a late Spring storm blew up out of nowhere, turning sky and sea alike a dark, threatening grey. The small ship, its masts creaking, its sails bellied out, ran before it, helpless to do aught else. The waves were high and ferocious, sweeping over the deck, and Abigail fled to the comparative safety of the area belowdecks. Even here, she could hear the deep voice of Captain Wood, shouting hoarse orders to his crew. Down below, a sailor gruffly ordered them to close all the portholes, stow their belongings away and cling on to something solid. Then he swarmed back up the ladder out of sight. Sleep was impossible, so the rest of them, she, her family and the other pilgrims, huddled together, staying out of the way, sitting it out and in some cases, being violently sick. Abigail wrinkled her nose before burying it in her little brother Daniel’s hair, which smelled only of slightly grubby small boy.

Almighty God, preserve us poor sinners. Help us to remember the words of the Psalmist, ‘Then they cry unto the Lord in their trouble, and he bringeth them out of their distresses. He maketh the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof are still. Then they are glad because they be quiet; so he bringeth them unto their desired haven.’ Let us never doubt that the Lord’s hand is over us and that we will come through this storm in safety and continue our voyage to the Promised Land. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

Her father, so strong in his faith, spreading hope and reassurance to the miserable group belowdecks. Have faith, my friends! The Lord will protect us and bring us safely to harbour.

Abi, I’m hungry, Daniel said.

Not now, Daniel, she whispered. Maybe when the storm is over.

His small face crumpled in disappointment.

Wait a moment, she said. I think I have an apple in my pocket. Would that do?

It was one of last year’s crop, wrinkled, but still sweet.

The little boy beamed. Thank you, Abi. I love you.

She cuddled him close. I love you too, sweetheart.

Holy Jesus, her father intoned, bring us safely through this storm. Strengthen our hearts, we pray…

His peroration was interrupted by a burst of lurid green, clearly visible through the portholes. No lightning Abigail had ever seen looked like that. She held her breath, wondering what fresh hell was round the corner. Then such a strange sensation – as though she was squeezing through a narrow hole, then coming out the other side. Daniel clung to her, bursting into noisy tears. What was happening?

Then the ship stopped pitching and tossing, the shriek of the wind died away.

The Lord be praised! her father proclaimed. He has delivered us.

Really? But she had the sense to keep the question to herself.

Jacob, her dear Jacob, climbed the ladder to the deck above. Moments later, he was back, excitement blazing in his handsome face.

Come and see! We have been delivered indeed.

They surged up the ladder and came out into… what? The sea, no longer grey, but a vibrant aquamarine, was calm, small white-capped waves rippling over its surface. Abigail looked up. The sun was shining, as though there had never been a storm.

Captain Wood strode towards them, his face pale under his seaman’s tan. I have never seen anything like it. One minute we were being driven before the storm and I feared for our lives. Then I saw a door – a great door standing on the waves. We were swept through. And then, we were… here. It seemed like, and he lowered his voice, magic.

Magic. Abigail had heard of witches and their evil powers. Surely not. And what was this about a door? A door on the waves? Impossible. She shuddered, a tremor of fear running through her.

Hush, man. Do not speak of such things. Her father’s voice was low and intense. Then he continued more loudly, The good Lord has delivered us by the miracle of His grace, Captain Wood. Fear not. Let us continue our voyage unafraid. We are in His hands.

But… the sea! That door! I fear we are no longer on the good earth.

Nonsense, man! You must have imagined it. Where else could we be?

I do not know. But I like it not, the captain replied. I will send someone aloft to see whether we are in sight of land.

As the sky darkened, stars started to appear, pinpoints of light blazing in the blackness above them. The night air was cool on Abigail’s skin. She shivered, drawing her woollen shawl up around her shoulders. She looked in vain for the Plough, could not find any constellation she knew. As others did the same, a deep unease began to spread among them. Where were they? Where were they? Was it just that the storm had driven them far off course? She hoped so. She had heard that the stars were strange on the other side of the world. Yes, perhaps that was it.

Next morning, Abigail and Mercy, her best friend among the pilgrims, were in the cabin they shared with two of the other women and her little sister, plaiting each other’s hair before covering their heads with the plain linen coifs they were required to wear in public.

Honestly, Abigail, I was so frightened, Mercy said, her fingers gentle as she skilfully braided the thick mass of Abigail’s blonde hair, before pinning it neatly into a great coil. That green flash – it was so strange, so sudden... And then the storm just… stopped.

I know, Abigail said, and did you hear what the captain said about a door? It seems impossible, but… did you notice the stars last night? The constellations are strange. I fear we are no longer on the way to the New World.

But how could that be? Surely there is no enchantment strong enough to transport us to another place?

Perhaps you are right, Abigail said. Perhaps it is only our ignorance – after all, what do we know about the stars in the New World?

The younger girl said nothing, but continued her ministrations. Abigail could feel her fingers trembling.

When she was done, Abigail smiled at Mercy before beginning to work on her friend’s hair. The feel of Mercy’s dark hair as it slid through her fingers had an everyday normality which calmed her. Now to soothe her.

Do not speak of this to any other, she cautioned. We must trust in the Lord, that He has not abandoned us.

Thank you, Abigail. That helps. You are so strong in your faith.

If only she knew. But this was not the time to share her doubts, at least, not with Mercy. Not even to Jacob had she confessed the misgivings she was feeling about her faith. She was struggling with certain passages in the Holy Bible, finding it hard to believe that her loving Saviour, who had died to redeem them all, could also be so vengeful, smiting the enemies of the people of Israel. Her heart told her the holy scripture did not lie, but her mind was not at all sure she could respect the angry, vindictive God of the Old Testament.

Each time these thoughts crossed her mind, she pushed them back down, frightened by their intensity. If she shared them with anyone, and her father got to hear of it, the best she could expect was a whipping. Her father was not the gentle, forgiving type of pastor, like Jesus, but fierce and unforgiving of any spiritual doubts.

For three days more, they pushed their fears to the back of their minds, having no alternative. The little ship continued on her way, afloat on the turquoise ocean. Now that the weather was calmer, Abigail spent most of her time on deck, looking after Daniel and Faith, to give her mother a rest. She was telling Faith a story, cuddling her close, when she heard a shout. Daniel.

Abi, Abi! Come and see! he said, his four-year-old voice full of excitement.

Where had he got to? Why had she taken her eyes off him?

To her horror, he had somehow climbed up high into the rigging and was holding on with one hand, his expression rapt.

Faith, don’t move an inch, she told the little girl. Then to Daniel, Come down from there directly.

Something in her voice made the little boy freeze. The joy on his face was replaced by fear. With an effort, Abigail stilled her trembling heart, and began to coax him down.

Come on down, Daniel, and tell me all about it, she said, as persuasively as she could.

I – can’t, he wailed.

Of course you can, dear one, she said, keeping her voice soft and even, although her heart was thumping in her breast. Or, I tell you what, I’ll stand here and you can jump into my arms.

All right, he said and, barely giving her time to brace herself, he let go of the rigging and leapt. She staggered as the solid weight of his body hit her, but managed to hold on to him.

There we are, she said, hugging him to her before putting him gently down. Thank God she had caught him – her mother would never have forgiven her if anything had happened to him. Now, what was it you saw?

He opened his mouth to tell her, but was interrupted by a cry from the crow’s nest. Land!

Everyone rushed to the ship’s rails. They had done it. They had made it to the Promised Land.

Getting ashore was a wet and uncomfortable business.

Captain Wood put down anchor a couple of hundred yards out from the shoreline of a roughly oval cove with golden sands and a forest behind it. He lowered two small rowing boats to transport the pilgrims and their goods to dry land. It took many trips and several hours, and Abigail’s father stayed on board to the last to oversee the unloading, deputing the organisation of the landing to Elder Sanderson.

By the time the sun was setting in a glorious display of yellow, orange, red and purple, the pilgrims and their stores were ashore. The men rigged a makeshift shelter for them towards the back of the cove, high above the tideline, using saplings from the nearby forest as a framework, with some rough sailcloth, purchased from the captain, thrown over it. It was basic at best, but at least they were out of the elements. Two of the men built a fire for cooking at the mouth of the shelter, and the women were bustling around, preparing a rich stew of salted meat and root vegetables.

Abigail sighed. It had not taken long for the usual division of labour to take place. She had hoped to do something more meaningful in this new world. But maybe that would come. Captain Wood and his crew were going to share the meal with them before re-provisioning in preparation for the long voyage home.

When everyone had eaten, and the remnants of the food, together with the pewter plates, eating knives and spoons, had been cleared away, her father rose to his feet.

"Brothers and sisters! Under the good Lord’s guidance, and through the beneficence of Captain Wood and his brave sailors, we have made this voyage to the New World. Never forget that we are the fortunate ones, who can now live free of persecution. Let any who doubt this, speak now, so that they may return to England on the Sweet Sarah. There is no room for people of little faith in this community."

His fierce blue eyes swept round the gathered pilgrims, sitting round the fire.

No-one spoke.

Good. You are all strong in your faith. There will surely be trials ahead of us, but so long as we trust in the Lord, He will provide. Then, turning to Captain Wood, Our thanks to you, good sir. We wish you plain sailing and calm seas, on your voyage home.

Thank you, Pastor Winters. I will not hide that we will be glad to see England once more. We will stock up on necessaries on the morrow, then set sail for home.

Chapter 2

Jacob and the other men spent the next few days building two more permanent shelters, one for themselves, the second for the women and children. Fortunately, the local trees were easy to chop down, and the pilgrims had all the tools they needed – axes, saws, two adzes, hammers and nails. Some among them had carpentry skills and shook their heads over not giving the wood time to cure. But it couldn’t be helped.

He delighted in using his body again – he had spent too long in the past few weeks being idle. And roofs over their heads were of paramount importance, as the weather was much cooler on this side of the Atlantic. If that was where they were. He was itching to explore this new world, But Pastor Winters was adamant – shelter first, exploration second.

From his position astride the roofbeams, Jacob spotted a ship with red sails. Was it Captain Wood returning? No, it couldn’t be – the Sweet Sarah’s sails had been white.He shrugged, dismissing the question. The Sweet Sarah would be well on her way back home by now. Pastor Winters had prevailed on the sailors to stay for a couple of days to help them with the construction, but they had acquiesced with poor grace, and had left on the morning of the third day.

They had been fortunate in their choice of landing site. The deep cove of gorgeously blue water contained many fish, and Captain Wood had been happy to add to his profits by selling them one small boat, so they could have fresh fish to eat. As the men were working hard to finish building the two shelters, it fell to the women to turn them into homes, unpacking and arranging the family belongings, arranging areas to sleep, eat and come together.

Abigail’s father was in his element, striding around at a great pace, issuing orders. Jacob was glad to be involved in the building work. Abigail and the other women had been set to making a detailed inventory of their food stores – salted meat, flour for bread, a few sacks of root vegetables and a limited supply of fresh water. It was clear they would not survive for long without relying on the land around them. Which meant they would have to make forays into the forest to hunt small game or gather fruits and nuts. Not to mention finding a source of fresh water – Captain Wood had only left them a couple of casks.

Nobody must go alone, Pastor Winters decreed on the morning of the sixth day. We do not know this land and must be cautious in our exploration, although I am certain that other settlers will soon hear of our landing and come and find us.

Really? Jacob was not so sure and knew Abigail shared his doubts. The man still believed they were in New England. They were equally sure they were not. She had told him of her belief that the flash of green at the height of the storm, the strange sensation they had both felt, had heralded their translation to a different world. But if it made Pastor Winters happy to think so, he, Jacob, was certainly not going to contradict him. The past weeks spent in close proximity to him had taught Jacob that opposition was met with anger. He shrugged, turned his attention back to what the man was saying.

I want volunteers to make up foraging parties, four in each. You know what we need – grains, fruit, nuts and small game. And it is essential that we locate a source of fresh water. Elder Sanderson will issue each party with one firearm. The person holding it will be in charge of the party. The others must do as he says, without question, as though it were I asking them. Some will go north, the rest south.

Murmurs of assent arose. They knew better than to cross him and in any case, Jacob could not wait to investigate this new land. He made sure he and Abigail were as far away from Matthew Sanderson as possible, so they would not be in the same group. He was as domineering as his father, and Jacob had taken a strong and instant dislike to him.

By an adroit move through the waiting people, towing Abigail after him, Jacob